How regimes ruin lives: my grandfather’s story

Israel is often called a nation of refugees which makes sense, given its history. Running away from persecution, religious or otherwise, is a common theme in the family history of many Jews. I have my own family story to share, and I believe the marketplace of ideas blog is a good place to do just that.

You see, Russians often tell us Poles that, ”If it wasn’t for the mighty Russia, you would’ve been exterminated by the Nazis” and we must be eternally grateful for the help of the Red Army. The same Red Army that stood by and watched the Nazis slaughter innocent people during the Warsaw Uprising in 1944, but okay, we know that Russians have a particularly selective understanding of history.

A Russian man once told me, ”You’re only alive because of Russia.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong, in a way. Part of my family fled what was then the partitioned Poland to the U.S. after one of the failed Uprisings against Russia – be it the November Uprising in 1831 or the January Uprising of 1863. Ellis Island started its operations in 1892, so my family had likely come to the U.S. before that. I know at least one of my family members took part in the First World War on the American side.

My maternal grandfather, Stan or Stanisław in Polish, was born on October 27, 1923, in Passaic, New Jersey. Passaic’s also called the birthplace of television, apparently. A nice touch, eh? He came to Poland before the Second World War with his parents and older sister. Why? Your guess is as good as mine, but the official story is that his sister needed a change of climate because there was something she couldn’t stand in the U.S. It’s weird, as you have all sorts climate types in the U.S., and she went back to the U.S. later in life. But yeah, whatever.

As wealthy Americans, they had a visa for a year and wanted to go back to the U.S. When the Second World War broke out in September 1939 with the invasion of Nazi Germany first and the Soviets second (yes, Russians, I know you either choose to ignore it or you really have no idea, look it up), Poland was gone and their plans didn’t matter anymore. The Soviets, of course, had claimed to be ”liberating” Poland and ”protecting ethnic minorities.”

Where have we heard that before?

An American stuck in a strange land, my grandfather became a Polish soldier. You can imagine how the war twisted his mind. Completely out of his element, he had to prove himself somehow. I remember when I was still a kid, how paranoid he was at times, as if expecting someone to come after him. He died in 1998 and I visit his grave on occasion, where it says, ”The soldier of the Polish Army.” Quite a twist in life and not necessarily for the better, given what his life might have been. I wonder if my grandfather’s claims that his father (my great-grandfather) was friends with Al Capone, the notorious gangster, were true.

Stan tried to go back to the U.S. after the war, in the 1940s. First, there was an investigation by the U.S. Embassy if he really was a U.S. citizen born and raised in Passaic, New Jersey. Yes, there was a U.S. Embassy in Poland at the time. I know this, because I have my grandfather’s correspondence with them – in Polish. The paper is so old, but you can make out the letters. In the correspondence, the U.S. Embassy confirmed that my grandfather was born in Passaic, New Jersey. Given that fact, the U.S. authorities had no problem with him being repatriated. But it wasn’t that easy because the Americans also pointed out that, regrettably, my grandfather had been only recognized as a Pole with a Polish passport by the Russian regime and he couldn’t go back to the U.S. So, you see, even the almighty America couldn’t help their own citizen when the Russian bear stepped in to claim, yet another, victim. Most people, 99% of cases back then, I’d say, are about people being denied entry by the U.S. authorities. In my grandfather’s case, it was the opposite. Life can be full of surprises.

My grandfather never went back to the U.S. when the regime in Poland had softened up a bit and he could’ve easily traveled there on a U.S. passport. He just didn’t feel the connection with his long-lost family over there anymore. It was a chapter of the distant past.

My grandfather also couldn’t pass his U.S. citizenship to his children because – as far as I understand the legal perspective here – he hadn’t lived in the U.S. long enough to do so. Well, he sure as heck passed his American accent onto me which, much to my amusement, bemused my British teachers. ”You have an American accent,” they would tell me, their eyes filled with horror. I like my American accent. I like the way I sound. I consider it a bonus.

His older sister, on the other hand, did go back to the U.S. but that’s all I know.

I have his American passport, long expired of course, I also have his baptism certificate that was translated into Polish. I visited Passaic, New Jersey, in 2013. Turns out, there’s a big Jewish community there (a Jewish man gave me directions to the Church). My grandfather had been baptized in a Polish-Catholic Church in Passaic. I spoke to one of the employees at the Church and showed him the correspondence with the U.S. Embassy, my grandfather’s passport and the certificate of baptism. I was given an address of where my American family had lived but, of course, we’re talking close to a century ago, so I wasn’t expecting to find anyone with links to my family living there. Indeed, I didn’t find any links.

If my grandfather had been alive in 2013, I would have flown with him to the U.S. and then it would have been so much easier to find out more. Sadly, he died in 1998 when I was still a kid and didn’t really care about the whole American story.

If my grandfather had gone back to the U.S. after the War, he would’ve been a different person and this blog post wouldn’t have been written. His life wouldn’t have been ruined by the Russians and all the wealth wouldn’t have been stolen or just gone forever. So, you see, I don’t need history lessons to know what the whole Russkiy mir (Russian world) means: my family history is more than enough to serve as a warning.

But, to some, anything against Russia is propaganda. Good luck to you, then.

Anyway, it’s just a not-so-fun family story that has no bearing, no impact, on the present. I could hire a PI or a genealogist, maybe set up an account on one of those ancestry sites. But I don’t care that much about what is, essentially, ancient history.

Plus there’s no guarantee I’d like what I’d find.

There are pressing present issues and some doors should stay shut.

I’m merely sharing my family story to encourage you to do the same.

You know, some scientists theorize that when we die, we’re no longer bound by space-time, and can pass between realities. Let’s say that theory (hypothesis?) has a basis in reality. When my time comes, I’d like to see several variations of my family’s life across the multiverse, just looking from beyond the veil, before I sit in the middle of a hilly meadow, smile, stand up and walk toward the sunset, to some other adventure in infinity.